No, I couldn’t talk to Andy about my birthday. I couldn’t really talk to him about anything these days. We barely even saw each other. He stayed up late to write. I got up early to get the kids to school. Since having kids, we had diverged into two completely different universes. He lived in his imagination. I lived in the kitchen. I loved being a mom, but good lord I had no idea how much of my day would be consumed by food. Shop for food, prepare food, serve food, clean up food, pack food to go—it was never ending. The stay-at-home mom had not evolved much beyond a wild animal—hunt, feed, rest, repeat. I was the busy lioness, in constant search of our next meal, while my male lion husband lounged in his cave.
“There’s a Goodwill across the street if you want to donate the rest of these,” the salesgirl said, putting the nos back in the trash bag and sliding it toward me.
“Great, thanks,” I said, implying I might just do that, even though I could have used a little goodwill myself.
“Would you like cash or store credit?” the salesgirl asked.
“Cash.”
As she counted out the money—a whole $140!—I felt relieved that, at least for one night, I would have a little cash in my pocket. It would be gone after one trip to the grocery store, of course. But my girls would have sushi, and some lucky stranger would wear Hermès meant for me.
CHAPTER 14
Too much free time is a dangerous thing.
With the girls still in school, the lasagna already prepped, and my workout, shower, and hair done, I had nothing better to do than rage about being snubbed by my new neighbor Holly Kendrick.
“What if she murdered him?” I asked Andy when he emerged from his writing to forage for some lunch. “Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t talk about it, because she had him, y’know . . .” I made a gun with my hand, pulled the trigger with my finger. “Poof. Disappear.”
“That’s plausible,” he said flatly. “When’s the lasagna going to be done?”
“The lasagna’s for dinner, have a sandwich,” I told him. “But seriously. Three months after her husband dying, she has a new boyfriend and a two-million-dollar house? How does that happen?”
“We don’t know Evan’s her boyfriend,” Andy countered as he pulled some bread from the freezer. “Is this all the bread we have?” he said, fondling a frozen Ezekiel loaf. He was curious by nature, but he never made assumptions. He knew from his past career how a wrong assumption could send an investigation completely off the rails. He was analytical to an extreme. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t prod him.
“There’s rye in the breadbasket,” I said, pointing. I could have made him a sandwich. I knew where all the condiments he liked were—pickles in the door, red onion in the bottom drawer. But I had been cooking all morning—that damn lasagna took forever—and I had just cleaned the kitchen and didn’t feel like messing it up again.
“If Evan’s not her boyfriend, then who is he?” I pressed. I knew he wouldn’t commit to a theory, but I wanted him to consider mine.
“I don’t know,” he began. “Could be a lawyer, real estate agent, her insurance adjuster, a family friend, her therapist, her sober companion—”
“All right, all right,” I interrupted. “You made your point. But what do you think is most likely?” He was looking through the refrigerator. “I’ll make your sandwich if you tell me I’m probably right,” I bargained.
“Right about what?” he asked. “Her being a murderer?”
“Well what’s your theory?” I said, nudging him out of the way and extracting the red onion from the crisper. “How does a newly widowed woman with no job and no class land the nicest house on the block?” I asked, knowing the “no class” remark was a low blow, but not inaccurate given how she had treated me.
“It is mysterious,” he said, probably because I was making his sandwich and he wanted to stay in my good graces, at least until I’d finished.
“I think she and Evan are a thing and have been for a while,” I said boldly. “He’s there at all hours, and reeks of money. Did you see his car?” I knew he had. My husband noticed everything, filing even the most minute details away in his brain until they fit together to tell the story. His analytical mind was one of the qualities I admired most about him, and I wanted him to put it to work.
“She’s got a brand-new car, too,” I added.